


The Truth About The Moon

by Mars_Bar_Boop



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, so many characters and plot lines, sorry for all the hurt I'm about to cause you, there's so many ships in this, yes that's a pun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:21:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25730509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mars_Bar_Boop/pseuds/Mars_Bar_Boop
Summary: Both orphans from a young age.Both born leaders.Both pirates.From a young age, Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly has wanted nothing more than to sail the seven seas, a crew he can call family by his side. From a young age, Sean 'Spot' Conlon has wanted nothing more than revenge on the man who tore his world apart and left him for dead at 10 years old. They're both grown now, Jack at 20 and Spot at 16. But neither has forgotten their ambitions, or their brother. Join the two and follow them and their crews as they meet colourful characters, fall in love, fall out of it; and of course sail the oceans in search of treasure, adventure and home.
Relationships: Albert DaSilva & Racetrack Higgins, Albert DaSilva/Elmer (Newsies), Albert DaSilva/Racetrack Higgins, Crutchie & Jack Kelly, Dutchy/Skittery (Newsies), Hotshot & Spot, Jojo (Newsies) & Skittery, Kid Blink/Mush Meyers, Sarah Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon & Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins, finch & dutchy (Newsies)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 24





	1. The Night It All Began

Tomorrow is another day

And when the night fades away

You will be a man, boy

But for now it's time to run, it's time to run!

_\- Run Boy Run, WOODKID_

** 1: The Night It All Began **

Jack Kelly had always been an outcast. His father, a pirate, had died in battle before he was born. His mother had been 'struck down by the Lord in punishment', as Jack was told at five years old by the priest as he walked him to the orphanage. He never told Jack what she was being punished for though.

As a boy in the orphanage, Jack played pirates with the other boys with wooden swords and hats stolen from the drunks outside. It was almost like home. Then two years later the place was burned to the ground. The young boy would forget the strange symbols he'd one day know as letters painted on the side of the ship that sailed off with the crew that caused the havoc, but he'd never forget the face of the man who walked in holding the flames, laughing... 

* * *

A seven year old Jack stood with his back to the burning wreckage of a building, a boy of three sat next to him on a pile of rubble. The boy reached out his small hand, brushing his fingers against Jack's. The older stared into the tiny creature's wide blue eyes, his own face reflecting back at him in the glassy orbs. The two looked at each other then, finding no comfort in each other's gaze, turned back to stare at the ocean to watch the boat sail away as the world crumbled around them in flames...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A ten year old Jack sprinted along the docks after the six year old, both laughing and yelling. 

"Catch me if you can, Jackie-boy!"

Their laughter was cut short as the younger boy tripped over a stray plank. Jack watched on as if in slow motion as his brother somersaulted through the air, skinny arms flailing helplessly. Time sped up again as the boy disappeared over the edge of the dock, and Jack heard a great splash. He chased over to the dock's edge, watching the ripples grow larger in horror. They grew and grew, and still the boy didn't surface...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A fourteen year old Jack Kelly was solemn and subdued. He sat brooding on the dock wall, remembering all those years ago. He stared at the water, and if he focused enough he could picture the ripples growing and growing again, spreading across the whole sea-

"Come on Jackie-boy, I was only jokin' about Dana. She's all yours." The blond patted his arm, jerking him out of his thoughts. He grunted and shrugged the boy off, and the boy sighed. "Look, I'll leave you be, seeing as you're in one of them moods. Just don't leave or nothin' stupid like that. Place wouldn't be the same without ya."

The blond walked off, to steal food Jack assumed, and he looked the other way, out at the open ocean stretching endlessly out before him. A loud hoot of laughter caused Jack's head to shoot to the left, staring at the strangers hollering as they leapt from a large vessel onto the dock, heading for the town. _Pirates..._

Jack struggled to his feet and chased down the dock after the retreating group, a new energy in his bones. He vaulted over barrels and dodged around carts of goods, trying to keep up. Eventually the group turned down a back alley Jack'd never explored before "-even I'm not mad enough to go down there, Jackie-boy. Jus' _looks_ like bad news-" The blond's words from a few months back echoed in his head. He ignored them, and slipped down the alley after the crew who already seemed tipsy.

He slowed to a walk as he tiptoed down the darkened alley, rickety buildings trapping out what little of the sunset remained, casting the alley in near total darkness. A sign creaked overhead the doorway the pirates had entered through, "Jacobi's Ba-" The sign was faded and rotting from the sea air. Jack darted through the door as it swung shut and stuck to the wall as he tried his best to melt into his surroundings. He didn't want to be the next meal served on anyone's plates.

The room had low ceilings with even lower beams and lighting. A crooked fireplace was lit on the other side of the room, and a skull sat on the mantel. Oil lanterns hung from brackets on the walls, casting flickering shadows on people's faces. Jack himself jumped when he saw his own gaunt-looking reflection staring back at him in a mirror. Jumped right back into someone. A gruff "Watch it!" sounded from the mountain of a man behind him and Jack spun around, stuttering though an apology. 

The man ignored Jack's words however, and held the boy up by his collar for the whole table of pirates to see. "Hey Weasel! Isn't this the kid?"

'Weasel' stood up and walked over, a long, tattered trench coat billowing behind him. He had beady black eyes that popped from his round, weathered face and a wiry beard down to his chest, where a gleaming gold compass sat proudly. Jack gulped. He meant business. "Sure looks like him."

The mountain studied Jack, still holding him in the air. "So, you the one following us?"

Jack stuttered, "N-no?"

"You don' sound so sure." The man smiled then, showing pointy blackened teeth, "Maybe warmin' yer feet up'll get your brain working again, eh?" The man started dragging Jack over to the fire.

"No, no!" Jack strained against him, "It was me! I was lyin', I'm sorry!"

The man stopped, but held onto Jack's collar. "Why? Roosevelt send you to spy on us? Eh?" He shook Jack.

"No! I don' know no Roosevelts! I jus' wanted to see where you were going!"

"Why?" Weasel stepped in.

"'Cause me father was a pirate. He died before I was born, see. I always wanted to be a pirate, just like him." The crew laughed and Weasel chuckled.

"Is that so?"

Jack nodded vigourously.

"Well what was your father's name, boy?"

"Francis," Jack said, "Francis Sullivan."

The crew fell silent, then a rush of mutters erupted around the table. Even the man holding Jack let go of him. Jack dropped to the floor and brushed himself off, listening in confusion.

"Can't be!"

"That true, you reckon?"

"I mean, I swear he had a kid."

"He's lyin'."

"How'd he know the name then?"

Weasel shushed them all and turned back to Jack, looking him up and down. "Who's your mother, boy?"

"Maria." More mutters.

"Your name?"

"Jack, sir. Jack Kelly."

A peg-legged pirate who seemed drunker than the others cried out. "It is him!"

"Shut up, Smith." Weasel barked. "Really, boy? Now that is interesting... you said you want to be a pirate, why?"

Jack shrugged. "Well, the way me ma told it, yous all a family. I ain't never had a family, 'cept for Sean-" Jack paused. _Sean._ "Look, I want to sail and be free and have mates I can call home, cause every home I've ever had's been taken from me." He looked at the floor. "I want a clean slate."

Weasel nodded along. "Hmm. Well, Jack, today might just be your lucky day. Have some drinks with us, see if you like our family. Then, by the end of the night, if yer want, you can join us. If we like yous."

Jack nodded eagerly. "Thanks mister." He thought briefly of Sean. What would he say if he could see Jack now? They'd always meant to start this journey together. But hey, Jack didn't have to decide just yet. He could wait...

The men ordered him a beer which Jack accepted eagerly; he'd only drank the once before. From what he vaguely remembered his mother didn't like drinking. Jack took a sip and started hacking. The crew laughed and chanted, he downed the rest of the drink. One turned to two, which turned to four, which turned to... Jack lost count. Sean would kill him for drinking, after that first time he wasn't allowed near alcohol. _But Sean's not here, Jackie-boy..._

From what Jack could tell in his intoxicated state, they all exited the joint an hour later, all off their faces, though only Smith was as drunk as Jack. The tall man from earlier handed Jack a lit cigar and Jack took a puff, handing it back as he exhaled slowly, his thoughts finally slowing down. They ambled down to the docks in a large group, hooting at girls passing by who turned their noses up at them. The sun was down now, the full moon illuminating the area with white light as they walked down the steps onto the dock. Jack could almost make out a small figure stood at the very end, watching him. He shook his head and turned back to face Weasel, who stood at the end of the gangway to the boat. 

"So Kelly, what'll it be?"

"You want me?"

"Who wouldn't, boy? Son of Francis Sullivan? Surprised you ain't been snatched up already." Jacks vision spotted, and he swayed.

"'s why me mother changed me name."

"Clever woman... so?"

"Jack looked over to the end of the dock again, the lone shadow watching him. He didn't recognise it, couldn't see the face. But the posture...

He looked back at the captain. "I'm in."

Weasel clapped him on the shoulder. "Excellent! Welcome aboard, Kelly!" He helped Jack up the gangway and heaved the plank of wood aboard as the ship began to move, parting ways with the dock.

It appeared one of the pirates could play some strange instrument, and Jack joined in with the drunken singing and dancing with the rest of the crew in time to the shanty. He felt the vague urge to turn back, like he'd forgotten something. An 'S' popped into his head, but he couldn't think of what it may be. He didn't own anything, especially nothing beginning with S. Except socks, and technically they weren't even his.

Jack shrugged and carried on dancing, swaying around the deck with an arm around Smith. He didn't need this place and this place didn't need him. He couldn't think of anyone that'd miss him. So he left. And he didn't look back once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So this was the first chapter! I really hope you enjoyed it. I initially wrote it out with two or three slightly different narratives, for example Spot wasn't going to be mentioned at all, but in the end I decided that this version gives the most insight into what's to come, and hopefully gives you an incentive to read more!  
> The music that'll be featured at the start of each chapter will be connected to the chapter, or at least the lyrics included will. I'll leave you to figure out how though. (I love spending hours choosing songs that link things together, I'm sorry. I had to do it.)  
> Nothing more to say right now, so until the next time,
> 
> -M.B


	2. New Legs And New Beginnings

See, I was born the second child

with a spirit running wild, running free.

And they saw trouble in my eyes,

they were quick to recognise the devil in me.

See, I was born a restless child

and I could hear the world outside calling me...

_-Second Child, Restless Child. The Oh Hellos_

**2: New Legs And New Beginnings**

Charles 'Charlie' Morris, or Crutchie as his boss called him, was a good boy. Never stepped a toe out of line, that anyone knew of anyway. A small English boy with no family this side of the Atlantic, he was a kindhearted, cheeky young lad with unruly blond hair and dirt permanently on his face and clothes. He sported a wooden crutch he'd fashioned himself after an injury he'd gotten on the journey over to America. Rigging had always been his least favourite job on deck, what with his fear of heights. 

Charlie worked at the local blacksmith, mainly running errands for Mr. Kloppman; but he'd picked up a few skills along the way. Despite his crutch he was always trying to race around and climb over boxes and barrels like he'd done back at home. He'd always been a wild child, but he was somehow incredibly mature for a twelve year old. Kloppman said it was because he was English-Charlie disagreed. He'd been stuck on a ship with a largely English crew for months and before that had lived in England. Most people he'd met were rather rude.

Crutchie sat at the anvil, staring into the embers of the forge when he heard footsteps approaching. They sounded odd on the flagstones, one normal and then one that sounded like metal clanging against the floor. He twisted around to watch the man approach and hobbled over, meeting him in the middle of the room.

"Hey there Mister! How can I help ya?"

The man looked at Crutchie for a moment, taking in his leg. Crutchie did the same back at him. The man had a wooden leg, with a metal knob at the end to stop the wood wearing down as he walked. He looked back up at the man's face. "Where's the man who runs this place?"

"Mr. Kloppman's out right now, left me in charge for the day. If you need anything I'm sure I can sort something for you though, sir."

The man laughed at the 'sir' part, clearly not used to being addressed with so much respect. "You're a funny one, lad. What can you do?"

"What do you want doing?" Charles retorted.

The man considered him, then slapped his wooden leg up on the stool Charlie had been sitting on. "See this? The metal at the end?"

Crutchie peered closely at it.

"I needs it replacing. It's rusting."

"Ah," Crutchie grabbed a screwdriver and crowbar and with a few knocks the cap was off the wood. "That's because it's steel. You want something that doesn't rust, like copper, bronze or brass."

"What's best of those then?" The man looked at Crutchie in new light, clearly impressed despite his best efforts to remain impassive.

Charlie brought over two sheets of metal, one reddish-brown in colour and one gold. "Might I suggest bronze or brass? They're stronger than pure copper and more fusible." He looked at the confused man, and changed his wording. "They melt quicker so they're easier to work with. The bronze is more expensive, but brass isn't as durable."

The man took him in for a moment longer. "You're a smart one, eh?" Charlie nodded. "I'll take bronze."

Crutchie nodded and tossed the gold sheet into the pile of other scraps, then started stoking the fire.

"What's your name, boy?"

Crutchie continued setting up, "Charles Morris, sir. Charlie, but Mr. Kloppman calls me Crutchie cause... well." He waved his crutch.

"How'd you get that bum leg anyway, Charlie?"

Charlie started heating the metal. "Fell of the rigging of a ship on the way over here, sir. Landed funny, and my leg never healed right."

He looked back at the man, who seemed in thought. "Well, Charlie. You're a good kid by the sounds of it. If you want, I have a friend who can do your leg."

"What do you mean _do_?"

The man gestured at his own peg leg. Charles raised his eyebrows and the man scowled, "'Least I don't need a crutch no more. I was born with a funny leg, see. Now I can run, and fight, and jump." He demonstrated the last one, vaulting up into the air and slapping the wooden beam overhead. Crutchie nodded, considering the offer. He _had_ always loved running around...

"What do you want for it?"

"I don' want anything. I see me in you, kid. I'd offer you a place on our crew too, but that ain't my place. I'm just the boatswain."

"Crew?" Charlie looked at the man, and noticed his tattoo on his forearm. "You mean like... pirates?"

The man clapped. "You DO catch on quick!"

Crutchie carried on working the bronze plate. "I don't know... I've never even stolen bread, mister."

"I'm sure we could just stick you in the kitchens with Cook. Lord knows he needs some company."

"I'll think about it."

"Please do kid," The pirate sat down as Crutchie started banging the metal on the anvil. "I'd hate to see you slip off the deep end. We're in port for a few days yet, if you want to do it."

"Thanks, sir." Charlie pondered over the offer all the while as he hammered the bronze and cooled it around the wooden stump. He always had wanted more freedom and to explore. Nobody would take him on a ship with a bum leg, and no navy would ever have him with one, or a wooden leg for that matter. But maybe these pirates would... and they didn't want him to break any laws for them... they weren't even properly taking him aboard yet, just fixing his leg.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Charlie continued thinking the offer over for the next two days, and finally made a decision. "Mister Kloppman, sir?"

Kloppman peered out from the curtain separating the room in two. "Yeah Crutchie?"

"That man I told you about a few days ago? I think I'm gonna take him up on his offer."

"You sure, Crutch?" Kloppman furrowed his brow, concerned for the boy. "A lot can go wrong with amputations."

Crutchie nodded, "I know. but what's the alternative? I'd rather die than lug this around with me for me whole life." Charlie kicked his crutch moodily. "It always hurts, I get splinters..."

Kloppman nodded in sympathy and walked over, patting Charlie's shoulder. "All right Charles. Its your decision to make. But what if they offer you that job he talked about?"

Charlie looked at the floor, "I want to travel..."

Kloppman sighed. "I understand, Charles. You've got to make your own choices in this life. But if they do offer it to you, I'm gonna miss you, kid. And if I could tell you one thing that you won't forget?" Charlie looked at him. "I'd tell ya, 'never let go of your morals'. You're the straightest arrow of a boy I've ever met, and despite what you may think or learn in life, that'll do right by you. Do what you believe is right, and then nobody can take that away from you. Don't lose yourself."

Charlie nodded and wrapped his arms around the man. Kloppman stiffened but slowly reciprocated, hugging the boy. "Come on, I'll walk you to the docks."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Crutchie awoke from his slumber feeling a wet rag being dragged across his face. He peeled his eyes open and blinked, a blurry figure mopping his brow. He blinked again and rubbed his eyes and the figure slowly came into focus. A boy who looked to be a few years older than Charlie with shoulder length blond hair pulled into a man-bun peered at him, a frown on his slim face. He wore a cowboy hat hanging off his neck on a string and a red neckerchief. The sleeves of his once-white shirt were rolled up to his elbows and leather and metal bands clinked on his wrists.

"Thank God you're awake, old man Jones thought he mighta outdone it with the ether. Thought you'd never wake up." The boy joked, but Charlie noted the slight tone in his voice. "Charles, right?"

"Yeah, Charlie. Crutchie, whatever."

The boy nodded at what remained of Charlie's right leg and he felt the pain kick in then, a numb aching sensation spreading from just below his knee all the way up his thigh. At least he was still high, or Crutchie knew it'd be worse.

The boy spoke again. "Smithy said you'll still be needin' that crutch of yours for a few weeks yet. He's gonna train you up though. You'll be jumping around in no time." Crutchie sat up with the boy's help. "So looks like you're Crutchie for a bit longer yet."

Charlie laughed. "Thanks... what's your name?"

"Oh," the boy stuck his hand out and Charlie shook it heartily. "Jack Francis Kelly, fellas call me Cowboy."

"You said a few weeks?"

"Yeah, boss man said you can stay. Congrats on making the crew by the way. Weisel has a habit of picking up strays."

They continued talking as Jack mopped Crutchie up and helped him to his new quarters. "You're on bedrest for the next few days, Jones says. But lucky for you I'm the one lookin' after ya. Yous rooming with me and all. So you're stuck with me for now, Crutchie."

Charlie laughed. "So far that suits me just fine..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, hope you enjoyed the chapter! Next chapter has a bit of a... different pace, so look forward to that.  
> Crutchie has a peg leg! Honestly you shouldn't have expected anything else, this IS a pirate fic...  
> Feel free to ask questions in the comments if anything confuses you or just for fun! Nothing more to say, other than BOY I put too much effort into researching anaesthetics and songs and other historical stuff for this and the next chapter. Have a great day or night, stay safe.
> 
> -M.B


	3. Out Of The Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahahahah ANGST TIME!!!

Will you remember me when I'm gone?

Or will you forget all that I've done?

I've made mistakes that I can't take back

I'm just a man, both good and bad

Can you forgive all my wrongs?

_-When I'm Gone, Shawn James_

**3: Out Of The Frying Pan.**

Jojo sat on a cannon watching his father work, content. His father stuck a hand up and Jojo lent over, placing a hammer in his palm. 

On the gun deck of the ship it was hot and dark; both father and son were dripping in sweat that cut lines through the muck on their skin. Jojo sneaked a sip of his father's beer that the captain had brought down and bounced his leg impatiently.

"Papa, when do I get to try?"

Daniel De La Guerra straightened up and sat back on his heels, looking up at his son. "Not on this ship, Jojo. This is an important job and we're going to get paid well for this." He went back to work. "And what have I told you about sitting on things that can kill people?"

Jojo huffed and slid off the hot black metal. "By that logic I shouldn't sit on Uncle Johnny's lap." he muttered. He busied himself with playing with the tools, much to his father's irritation. Eventually the old man straightened up again and wiped his hands on his shirt.

"Oh for God's sake, Jojo. Just... go and check all the cannons are sponged out. Here-" he thrust a sponge at Jojo. "That should keep you busy for a while yet."

Jojo turned and looked across the cramped corridor at the cannons, and sighed. "But I want to do real work-"

"This is real work. You can do as much as you want at the gunsmith's when we go back home, but this job cannot go wrong, Jojo." Jojo's father looked at him and his face softened. "I promise. It's not that I don't trust you, but I need to make sure this is perfect or people will get hurt."

"Isn't that the point of cannons?"

Jojo's father laughed. "Yes, son. I suppose you're right there."

Jojo sighed again, but not as grouchy as before. More resigned than anything. "Alright. But I get to re-cut the rifling on that musket when we get back."

"Deal." The two spat into their hands and shook, and with that Jojo turned and clambered over all the cannons, heading to the end of the row start the long process of sponging out each and every cannon.

* * *

Jojo was up in the rafters when they came for him, reading a book. He saw the door creak open and a sliver of light appear, and the tops of hats. He couldn't see the clothing, but they didn't look like regular customers browsing the merchandise, so he swung over onto his belly, laying flat against the beams.

Blue coats, gold trimmings on some cuffs. Bayonets. Jojo inhaled sharply, sawdust and dust particles scratching at his throat and nose, but he held in a cough. The man at the front of the pack, who looked to be the leader, called out.

"De La Guerra! Get out here with your hands up!"

Jojo stared in horror and confusion, and a second later his father walked out from the back room slowly, hands half-raised. "What do you want, Atlas?"

Atlas smirked. "We've finally got you. Stealing my woman isn't a chargeable offence, but armouring a pirate ship? You'll go down for that, Daniel."

"She was never _your woman_ , moron. She hated you till the day she died-"

"ENOUGH!" Atlas jumped forward and pressed the tip of his bayonet against Daniel's chest. Jojo held a hand to his mouth, choking on the sawdust. He pushed himself up like a cat onto his hands and knees. "Where's your son, De La Guerra?"

Jojo's father's face turned sour. "Go to Hell."

"Aiding and abetting in a serious crime like that? What do you reckon that'll fetch, Simmons?" Atlas was grinning now, Jojo felt sick to his stomach.

Simmons, another soldier, spoke up. "Just as bad as doing the crime, sir. He's only young though. Perhaps flogging in the square or exile?"

Atlas grinned widely. "I'm sure we can push it to the death penalty. Wouldn't want the boy to be apart from his father, would we?" Jojo let a few tears slip silently from his eyes onto the beam, washing away the undisturbed dust and grime.

Simmons stepped forwards and shackled Daniel's wrists, and Atlas shouted out some commands. "Spread out, find the boy. He's small, what's his name Daniel?"

Daniel spat on the floor at Atlas' feet. "You'll never get him. My boy's smart, smarter than you lot. If he had any sense he's already gone." Jojo saw his eyes flicker to him and he nodded, still crying, and carefully stood up on the beam, arms outstretched for balance. Atlas slapped Daniel so hard he smacked his head against the wall behind him, and Daniel groaned, stumbling backwards. Jojo tucked the book into the back of his trousers.

"I want the boy! Get him!"

Jojo began toeing across the thin beam, trying to reach the centre where he could pull himself up into the ropes and out of a window. But about halfway across he felt the coughing fit coming back and he doubled over, soldiers spanning out below him. He clamped a hand over his mouth, almost retching, but it was no use. A loud cough and a mouthful of dust and sawdust burst from his mouth in a cloud, and Jojo straightened up, eyes watering. But that was the least of his issues.

Simmons whipped his head around. "Up there!"

The soldiers all scrambled for the ladders and ropes to pull themselves up and Jojo panicked, leaping onto another beam. He slipped and fell, catching himself on the beam at the last moment. He hung there, both arms and a leg wrapped around the rafter like a koala. He started to heave himself up but all of a sudden he felt a large hand wrap around his ankle. He looked down, eyes wide, and saw Atlas' hungry face grinning at him. Jojo yelled and floundered, kicking the soldier square in the nose. Atlas fell back clutching his face and Jojo heard his father laugh openly as he pulled himself up.

Jojo crouched on the beam and finally straightened up, walking along it. Just then a sallow-faced soldier hauled himself up onto the beam at the end, blocking his way off. Jojo turned around to head for the other end, and saw Simmons. He looked down; the rest of the soldiers had their bayonets pointed up at him, blades glinting in the sunlight that filtered in through the rafters and ropes.

Jojo looked around in desperation as Simmons and the yellow-faced soldier crept up on either side of him, and spied a rope hanging from the ceiling, about five and a half feet in front of him. _Don't do it, Jojo, you idiot_ , he told himself. But then he saw Simmons out of the corner of his eye, wobbling and almost upon him. Simmons jumped forwards and Jojo threw himself at the rope, bare feet pushing off the worn down edge of the beam.

He sailed through the air, hands outstretched, and caught hold of the rope, burning his hands as he swung like a pendulum across the room and back again. He slipped down the rope and scrambled for a better grip, hands bleeding and torn. Jojo pulled his legs up and wrapped his right foot around the rope and stood up on it, moving up the rope like a caterpillar. He reached the hooks on the ceiling and swung across quickly, not minding were he threw his hands as he focused on momentum and reaching the window. Which is were he made his mistake.

He reached the windowsill and hauled himself up and through, and screamed. A loose nail stuck out of the wooden sill and had pierced the webbing between his right thumb and forefinger as he rolled his full weight onto his palms. He scampered onto the sill and stared at the bloody nail sticking through his hand, and heard the soldiers yelling below and behind him. Everything was dialled to eleven. He just wanted to curl up there and then in a ball with his hand over his ears and cry; crawl into Johnny's lap and be rocked to sleep.

Instead, the scraggly thirteen year old yanked his hand free, crying out as it ripped through more of his hand. He cradled his hand and jumped from the window out onto the rooftops surrounding him, and headed where? He did not know.

Jojo ran hard and fast, tears streaming from his eyes, his book pressing against the bottom of his spine. He vaulted across rooftops and scampered up and down walls, a blind mess. Blood trailed after him from his burnt and pierced hands and from his feet, raw from running. The adrenaline blocked out the pain and he ran across a roof, leaping to the next one. It was as he jumped he saw how large the gap was. He smashed his chest against the edge of the building, winding himself, legs swinging wildly below him. He looked down. Two stories. _Fuck it._

He dropped, rolling and crying out again, but was on his feet in seconds and running again, the only trace he'd been there some bloody hand and foot prints on the cobbles. He carried on sprinting blindly until he tasted the sea air on his tongue. He was near the docks. An inn was up ahead, Jojo ran to it. Just as he reached the door a man stepped out and Jojo smacked full force into him. The man looked down at the bloodied crying child at his feet.

"Please Mister! You have to help me! Soldiers-they came-my father-"

The man looked down at him, "Do I know you from somewhere, son?"

Jojo breathed in heavily and took in the man's face. He looked like the man from the boat a few days ago. "I-I think my father did-did some repairs on y-on your boat-"

The man's eyes widened and he reached into his pocket. Jojo saw a flash of metal and wood, and felt a sharp blow across his temple and cheek. He twisted around with the force of the blow as he hit the floor. His vision blurred and red and black spots danced in front of his eyes, and the world turned black as he sank into the darkness, half-craving the peaceful release of the black surrounding him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, as always I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Everyone's stories are starting to emerge now, so pretty soon we'll have lots of characters to torment-I mean love and cherish and not let anything bad happen to.  
>  I was thinking of going back and adding fake dates to all the chapters so y'all can better picture the story line, would you guys like that? Let me know.  
>  Fun fact: everything Jojo did in his escape, I verified by doing it myself. Not the burning hands part (although I've had similar and it hurts like a b*tch), but I chose the distance between the beam and rope by laying on the floor and using my height (5'6") as a guide; then jumping that distance onto the sofa like I was grabbing for a rope. Repeatedly. Also that thing with the nail? Personal experience plays into that. About a year and a half ago I accidentally stabbed my right hand in the webbing with a huge kitchen knife, except with me it went in horizontally and into the flesh of my hand rather than vertically through it. Fun times.  
>  On that bombshell, have a great day or (let's be honest) 3am fanfic-reading spree,
> 
> -M.B


	4. And Into The Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you thought just one chapter of angst was enough? Nope, this book is just filled with it. Pack some tissues for your journey, this whole trip's gonna have you in tears.

These walls are caving in

You're paying for your sins

Over and then again

Oh weird and lurid lands

The gates are opening

_-Babylon, Barns Courtney_

**4: And Into The Ocean**

Jojo moaned and rolled over, clutching his head. A pounding sensation spread from his temple across the left side of his face, and his hair felt straw-like with all the blood caking it. His chest felt like he'd ran full speed into a bar or been hit with a baton. His right hand hurt like all hell, and when Jojo pulled it away from his skull he saw a hole going right through it. _Huh. That's new._

His whole body felt like lead, and as Jojo tried to sit up he realised why. Shackles ensnared his wrists and heavy chains dripped from them and the pair on his ankles to a hook on the wall. He looked around warily, trying to figure out where he was.

He sat on a thin bed of straw in a cell of some sort. A wooden deck hung off more chains on a wall in the small space, Jojo supposed it was his new bed. Apart from that and the unnerving stench of bodies and gunpowder the cell was completely empty, so Jojo focused his attention on the larger room around him. 

There seemed to be four of the same style cells in all, one in each corner of the hot, dark room. He was the only prisoner, but all the same Jojo felt unnerved. Two small barred windows stood opposite each other at eye-height and Jojo struggled to his feet, leaning on the bars to try and stand. He gripped his hands around the metal, crying out and falling down when he couldn't hold them. He stared at the palms of his hands, covered in dried blood and cracking scabs, fresh blood and a clear liquid seeping through the cracks in fresh pain. Jojo felt an ache in his feet as if he'd run a marathon. He couldn't do anything. He was trapped.

And finally, all the emotion Jojo was unaware he was hiding under his thin clothes was released. He curled into a ball with his back against the bars, head in his knees, and cried. He cried loudly with a heart full of anguish, as if he was the only person on the planet. He sure felt like he was. He was almost disappointed when nobody came in to threaten him into being quiet. At least he wouldn't be so alone that way.

What felt like hours passed and darkness fell. Jojo had stopped crying-his dehydration getting the better of him. So instead he sat, parched, on the bed; watching the sunlight sink below the rim of the window. Slightly calmer now, Jojo felt the room rocking a little. _That can't be good._ He could only hope the building or wherever he was wouldn't collapse, from what he could tell he'd already had a horrible day. Waking up covered in your own blood with no clue where you were wasn't exactly Jojo's idea of a good one. The last thing he remembered was running, hard. He couldn't imagine why he'd run anywhere barefoot though, and his hands had been ripped to shreds, burnt and blistering painfully. Jojo knew enough to know they were rope burns, but how? Jojo had burnt himself before, working with his father, but rarely on ropes. He was a gunsmith-more metal work. And never this badly either.

Jojo remembered something about cannons; cleaning them while his father worked. The memory felt days old, and that didn't explain why Jojo had been running. The boy sighed and pulled his aching legs up onto the wooden deck and into his body, curling up and deciding to get some sleep.

It was then that the man came in.

He wore a frilly white tunic underneath a leather waistcoat, with a long black coat that reached his knees over the top. A large hat with a red feather sat on the man's head, casting unnatural shadows across his shaven face. A candle flickered weakly in his hand, wax dripping into the dish it sat on. Two pistols hung from the pirate's hips, and Jojo scrambled to sit up when he saw that one was covered in blood. He touched the wound on his head and winced, that was probably his blood.

The man swept over with too much elegance, like he was meeting a member of royalty rather than the little boy covered in blood, sweat and tears. He reached the cage in the far right corner of the room and smacked the blood covered pistol against the bar, a loud clang ringing out. "Up."

Jojo scrambled to stand, immediately collapsing when he tried to put weight on his feet. He looked up at the man who stared back impassively. He tried to stand again, but when he put his hands on the floor to push his frail body up he felt a sharp pain throughout his palms. He fell again, laying in a heap on the red straw with his head on the ground, shaking with the effort not to cry again. He wouldn't cry, he refused to. Not in front of this man, whoever he was.

He looked up at the pirate again and glared. The man rolled his eyes and began talking, pacing. His heavy footfalls made Jojo jump every time the man's boots made contact with the wooden floor.

"So, what did you tell them?"

"Tell who?" Jojo said confusedly.

The man rounded on him, hands wrapping around the bars, "Don't play dumb with me, boy. I'll skin you right here." His rings clanged against the metal when he gripped the bars. Jojo backed away, terrified. So he apparently knew something to do with pirates. He couldn't imagine what.

"Look, I swear! I don't know what you're on about! I don't even know how I got here! I just want to go home..." Jojo shrank in on himself, he just wanted to go home to his father. Sit on uncle Johnny's lap like always and fall asleep by the fire. Read his books. Where was his book anyway? Jojo remembered it pressing against his spine for some reason, and yet as he ran a hand there he felt nothing but his own flesh and bones.

The pirate smirked. "You ain't goin' nowhere near home for a while yet, boy."

"Please!"

"No," The man flashed a toothy grin at Jojo, a gold tooth catching the light of the flame in the candle he carried. "You're on our ship now, sonny. And we set sail the second I got you aboard."

Jojo blanched. "No... No you can't! That's kidnapping!" He had to go home, he wanted his father.

The pirate rolled his eyes. "We're pirates, boy. You think we care about a little kidnapping charge? They'd have killed you anyway, you should be thanking me."

Jojo would rather be dead than be stuck on a pirate ship, "Who would've killed me?"

The pirate was getting impatient, "The soldiers, boy. You said they came for your father."

"What?" Jojo felt like throwing up. Soldiers? For his father? His father was a good man, why would soldiers come for him? He could only hope he'd not done something serious...

Jojo's eyes widened and he stared at the pirate. He crawled forward to the bars, chains just about letting him reach, "Please! We have to go back! They're gonna kill him! Please!" He pulled on the man's coat and he kicked him in the face through the bars, sending him flying onto his back. Jojo felt hot liquid running from his nose and he lay there, sprawled on his back, tears threatening to spill from his eyes again. But he refused to cry, not in front of this monster.

The pirate scoffed and turned on his heel. "I'll be back tomorrow, boy. You better get that memory of your's in gear, or you're going for a little swim." He strode from the room and Jojo felt the tears sliding from the corners of his eyes. He didn't bother to move, letting himself melt into the darkness. He was going to die here. At least he'd be with his father. He hoped. Jojo wasn't exactly sure how the Afterlife worked.

The door creaked open again after some time and Jojo still didn't move. He'd make them drag him out. Well they'd have to anyway, he couldn't walk. Soft footsteps padded on the floor and Jojo stared at the ceiling, not even moving at the light tap on the bars. He wasn't something to be ogled at like a cat in a zoo.

"Psst! Hey." Jojo lifted his head a little and looked between his legs, staring angrily at the boy crouched on the other side of the bars. He too wore a white tunic, but his had no frills and was held together at the top by a few pieces of string, exposing the tip of his chest. His brown breeches hung off his hips and swamped his long legs in material. He held a candle like the man before him, but had no hat to hide his light brown hair in its soft waves. He looked the same age as Jojo, maybe a little older. He was tall too, Jojo noticed him fidgeting with the too-small shirt and heard a small rip. He would've laughed, if it didn't make him want to cry even more. What was a boy like him doing on a ship?

Jojo still stared, tear streaks and blood across his face, and the boy bristled uncomfortably. Jojo felt a wave of pride wash over him.

"I, ugh-I brought you some water and food." The boy did indeed have a cup of water and a plate with assorted snacks on it on the floor next to him. Jojo scowled.

"I'm not going to talk."

The boy shook his head, "I don't want you to. But Snyder does. I suggest you tell him what he wants to know, or you know..." He drew a finger across his throat.

"Oh what a shame that'd be." Jojo muttered, but he still sat up, crawling over to the bars. The boy looked frightened at his statement and once again Jojo felt that sick pride pooling in his stomach.

"Umm, here." The boy eventually said, and held out the metal cup through the bars. Jojo grabbed it, but the second the boy let go of the handle it clattered to the floor, water spilling onto his legs and the floor. Jojo cursed, wringing his hands. "Oh, sorry. Don' panic though," The boy rushed when he noticed Jojo's teary eyes, "Here, I've still got some more."

He pulled out a flask and held it to the bars, not letting go this time. He ignored the pang in somewhere in his gut as Jojo gripped his wrists with both hands and guzzled the water like a baby or a lamb. He almost drowned himself trying to drink it all. He choked and the boy went to take the bottle back, but Jojo tightened his grip, wincing. "Please..." He cringed at his voice cracking. _Weak..._

If the boy thought so, he didn't show it. He held the bottle until Jojo had finished it completely, not even complaining about his arms growing tired. When Jojo finished the boy withdrew his arms slowly, and next held out a loaf of sourdough bread. Jojo shot him a look.

The boy sighed and took it back. He ripped a small corner off and held it out again. Jojo snatched it and balanced it in his finger tips, ignoring the pain and the the metal taste of the bread as blood from his fingertips soaked the dough. He swallowed and held out his hands for the next piece, but the boy snatched his hand back when he saw the blood soaked fingers.

"You're bleeding!"

"And starving, give it."

"Was that just from trying to hold the cup?" The boy lent his forehead on the bars.

Jojo shrugged.

The boy paled. "You can't hold anything, can you?"

"I'm willing to put up with the blood if you just give me some fucking food."

The boy shook his head. Jojo launched forwards at the boy and the latter jumped back as Jojo stuck his hands through the cell, chains clanging on the bars and preventing him from reaching out all the way. The boy thought for a moment, then spoke quietly, knowing Jojo would hate the idea. "I'll feed you."

"Abso-fucking-lutely not."

The boy shrugged. "You could get a blood infection."

"Pretty sure I already do." Jojo held up his right hand with the hole through it. The boy gagged and closed his eyes. Jojo lowered his hand and the boy slowly opened his eyes again, squinting to check his vision was bloodied-hand free.

He held out the next piece of bread through the bars silently and Jojo went to take it, but the boy didn't let go.

"Give it!"

"I'm not letting you hurt yourself!"

"Why not?!" The two froze at Jojo's words. He sighed and shook his head, blinking back tears. He looked at the boy, deciding to try and stare him down. Jojo soon realised the boy wouldn't give up so he swore under his breath, inched over and leaned against the bars. He opened his mouth halfheartedly and rolled his eyes, and the boy dropped the bread in.

"Wasn't so hard, was it?"

Jojo glared at him. The boy held out the next piece of bread.

* * *

The boy, who's name Jojo learned was Skittery- _strange name_ , Jojo had thought-brought Jojo food and drink each night for the next few weeks, sneaking in once the rest of the crew was asleep. Jojo had taken his advice and told the captain, Snyder, everything he remembered when he was hauled up on deck.

He remembered the soldiers coming, his father in shackles being smacked across the face. Escaping through the window and stabbing his hand, running. Running hard and fast until he ran into someone. He also remembered looking Skittery in the eyes over Snyder's shoulder the whole time he told his tale, and Skit nodding gently when he choked up talking about his father. He remembered Skittery bringing him more food than usual that night, and hugging him tightly through the bars as he cried into his shirt.

Even a year later, as he and Skittery sat in the eagle's nest after Skit convinced Snyder that Jojo could be of use to them-having pirates for parents did have some advantages-Jojo remembered. As they lounged back eating their food and watching the sunset he remembered Skittery's kindness, and his willingness to fight for a boy he didn't even know. Jojo was grateful; for the view that night, for the food, for the company. To be alive. He was grateful to have a brother, even if he no longer had a father. At least he still had family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Here's a longer chapter for you guys! I'm gonna be honest with you, I loved writing this chapter-it felt almost too easy, the words just flowed. Which probably doesn't say much for my mental state-but I adore this little friendship, okay? It's one of my favourites that I have planned (yes I will say that about all of them).  
> Jojo's angst is over for now, so we can all rest knowing that he's somewhat okay. Thankfully, I can tell you that unlike the last chapter, I did not experience what Jojo went through in this chapter. I have had issues with holding things before from having super shaky hands for ReasonsTM, but I don't have friends like Skittery-which I'm almost thankful for in this case. Glad I didn't have my friends force-feeding me at school. I did eat their snacks though. I'm rambling, let's stop this train of thought.  
> Choosing this song took me 4 days of browsing YouTube in every spare moment. I'm not joking, I've had my headphones on constantly. I think my ears are stuck to the sides of my head now. In fact in the time I've been writing this note I've swapped it around again, but hey. I added another chapter JUST to add in the song I was going to use here about five minutes ago. Just because y'all may not fully grasp why I've chosen this song outside of the lyrics I've included (even though I like to leave it as something you have to figure out), I'd tell you to look into the Biblical significance of Babylon. (hint: sinful, impressive, learning and culture)  
> Aside from that, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Again, I'm asking if you'd like me to add fake dates to the chapters so you can better picture the story line, as it might get a little complex the further along we get. (This thing spans at least 6-7 years.)  
> That's all for now. See you in the next chapter!
> 
> -M.B


	5. In All The Wrong Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of someone skeletal and of severe scarring. If you struggle reading about things like this for whatever reason, please do not read the chapter but instead contact me on here or via my tumblr, @thatsmycigarbutyoucanborrowit or @mars-bar-boop , and I can send you a version of the chapter that doesn't contain these descriptions, or skims over them.  
> Thank you, and please stay safe.

Take me back to the night we met

When the night was full of terrors and your eyes were filled with tears

When you had not touched me yet

Oh, take me back to the night we met

I had all and then most of you

Some and now none of you

Take me back to the night we met

_-The Night We Met, Lord Huron_

**Chapter 5: In All The Wrong Places**

Hotshot stared up at the moon, a waning gibbous. The same as the night he'd met the boy curled against his chest peacefully. God forbid anyone saw them, Spot'd never talk to him again. But where they were, a small abandoned part of the docks where broken planks and loose boards prevented most people from reaching them, Hotshot thought they'd be safe for tonight. They had been for every other night.

Hotshot stroked the boy's hair absentmindedly and the skinny figure curled into him tighter, a fist gripping his faded red shirt. He looked down at the head of blond hair and sighed, watching the boy's head rise and fall in time with his chest. He looked back at the moon who smiled down upon the two boys at peace below her. _Thank God I found you..._

* * *

**April 9th, 1699**

Hotshot clambered over the broken planks, avoiding the loose planks he'd set up as booby traps. For a twelve year old, he was pretty clued up. He had to be, living on the streets. He reached the main dock and clambered onto it, pushing himself up with ease. He slipped into the crowds of fishermen, boatswains, vendors and sailors milling around on the docks; off on another day's adventure...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"See you tomorrow, Hotshot!"

Hotshot waved his free hand at the old fisherman, a scarf filled with scraps under his left arm. He skipped down the longest part of the pier as the moon rose steadily over the horizon, a waning gibbous. Skip, the fisherman, had taught him about the moon; and how to read, write and count. Skip was kind, Hotshot thought to himself. He paused and sat down on the dock, legs swinging freely above the cool water with his haul next to him, watching the moon peacefully. He wondered if people would ever go to the moon. _Maybe that's where you go when you die_ , he thought to himself. _I'd like that._

After some time Hotshot stood again, the moon fully in the sky. He saluted her and picked up his scarf, walking back to his home. It was as he reached the end of the main dock though, that he heard it. A small sound he almost didn't notice. One that would alter the course of his life, and multiple others', forever. But he didn't know that just yet.

It was a quiet whimpering and moaning, like an animal in pain. Hotshot dropped his scarf into a pile of ropes and scoured the dock with his eyes-no sign of an animal. The noise almost sounded like it was coming from below him. Hotshot dropped to his stomach, remembering the platform of the original dock was still under the new one. The town'd never bothered to destroy the rotting and broken deck-only build over it. He supposed he should be thankful; if they'd destroyed it he'd have no home. Hotshot peered over the edge of the new dock, body curling around the edge of the planks. What he saw almost made him tumble into the water in shock.

A small... _boy?_ was huddled on the platform, moaning and clutching his stomach. The shirt he wore was torn to shreds around his upper chest and was covered in blood. Hotshot would've though the shirt's natural colour was red if the child didn't have slick blood with congealed black lumps painting his hands and face too. _He barely looks human_. His bones cut through his worn clothing sharply, and when he rolled over Hotshot saw his spine from where his shirt had rolled up his back, sticking up and out of his skin like a jagged mountain range. His prominent hips created a cavernous valley between them where his abdomen should've been. He was skeletal-a ghost clinging to a body. Desperate for life, even if it was such a pained existence as what he seemed to be living right now. A large key hung from the boy's neck, tangling in the ripped remains of the shirt.

Hotshot was unsure of what to do, but the blood rushing to his head wasn't helping so he swung down onto the platform and landed softly next to the boy. As the latter startled and scrambled to sit up, Hotshot's eyes were drawn to the bloody dagger in his bony hand, shaking as the boy pointed it at him.

Hotshot held his hands out in an attempt to calm down the boy, "Hey, I'm not gonna hurt ya."

The boy blinked at him; Hotshot noted the tear tracks in the blood coating his face.

"Please, just put the knife down. I can help you." The boy shook his head, but then yelled and dropped the dagger, hands flying to his stomach. He heaved and Hotshot took the opportunity to kick the dagger off the crooked platform into the sea. The boy glared from his position on the floor, in too much pain to speak.

Hotshot jumped back up to the main dock and grabbed his scarf, pulling it down with him. He knelt down and untied it, pulling out a sandwich he'd stolen from a sailor. "Here, you hungry?" 

The boy eyed him cautiously, then snatched the sandwich, pulling his hand back as if touching Hotshot would burn him. He wolfed down the sandwich, giving Hotshot time to look him over properly. He had blue eyes with flint stone specs in them, deep and haunted with black and yellow bags drooping under them. A thin girlish face with a chiselled jaw framed his features-cheekbones that could cut glass with cracked lips from the salty air. Hotshot supposed the boy could grow up to be quite handsome; underneath all the blood.

The boy finished and looked up at Hotshot, silently asking for more.

"Tell me your name first." Hotshot bargained.

The boy hesitantly opened his mouth to speak, "M-phhhhh-" A rasping gasp of air escaped from the boy's throat and he started hacking up yet more blood. Hotshot wondered how it was possible for the boy to be alive with how much red seemed to be out of him rather than in. He went to pat the boy's back but the boy flinched away, almost falling off the other end of the platform. Hotshot frowned.

"Can you write?" The boy shook his head, staring at the bloodstained planks that formed the floor. "Read?" He nodded. "Alright. I know how we can figure out your name." The boy looked up at him and nodded again, hesitantly. "I'll just lift you up over there-" The boy shook his head and Hotshot lent forwards to convince him but the boy shoved him back with surprising force. "I'm just trying to help-"

The boy tried to speak again, blood flying from his lips. "I-hhhh-I don.....want-" He spat out more red, it landed on Hotshot's boot. "-your.... hhhh... help."

Hotshot furrowed his brow and moved to the boy again but the boy held his fists up. He backed up. "I... okay." He bent down and tapped the food, picking up an apple and pocketing it. "I'll just leave this for you..." He turned and jumped up, heaving himself up onto the dock again; hanging his head as he wandered back to his home, dancing around the broken planks and the nails that stuck up through the rotten wood. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next night Hotshot peered over the end of the dock, unsure of what he'd see. The boy was still there, asleep. Hotshot could see his chest rising and falling; thankfully. The scarf lay empty but for a few crumbs, and Hotshot smiled. He dropped down and the boy stirred. The smaller boy bolted upright, but when he recognised the face standing above him he huffed and clutched his bloodied chest.

"Sorry for waking you. And for scaring you last night. I just..." Hotshot found his words dying in his throat, unsure of what to say. Instead, he held out his hand, offering the loaf of bread as a peace offering. The boy stared at it with narrowed eyes and Hotshot waited with bated breath.

Once again the boy snatched it, but this time he nodded at Hotshot before devouring it. _Apology accepted_. Hotshot hoped that's what he meant anyway.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Over time the two developed a sort of crude sign language, and by the time the boy curled into Hotshot's chest for the first time to sleep they could communicate almost fully non-verbally. The boy's voice had healed over about half a year, but he'd still wake up sometimes unable to speak more than a few words, and after a lot of talking he'd spit blood like some strange snake and be reduced to a croaky whisper. On those days the boy refused to talk, he couldn't let any of the other street rats think he was weak.

It turned out his stomach pain had been hunger. Over time Hotshot managed to feed the boy more and more-but never too much at once in fear the boy'd explode. Eventually he stopped resembling a skeleton and began to look more and more human, almost like a real boy instead of some creepy drawing come to life.

What never fully healed were the wounds across the boy's chest. Hotshot remembered the first time he saw them; when he'd pulled the boy from the icy evening water one night and rushed him into some spare clothes he'd stolen from a crew in dock months prior. He remembered staring at the boy's rib-cage from behind, and his jaw going slack with shock when he'd turned around with a hand extended for a dry shirt. 

They lay across the boy's chest like some intricate map; a mixture of deep gashes and faint white scratches littered around his heart. Hotshot had recalled the amount of blood on and around the boy the night he'd met him, and found himself realising it was a miracle he was alive at all. Some of the scars were hypertrophic, thick red and white raised lines that stretched across and down the boy's chest. Two were far larger and wider than the others-sunken purple ravines that carved their way across the centre of the boy's rib-cage.

The first started at the top of his chest, an inch or two above his right nipple, and ran jaggedly into the middle of his torso and to the bottom of his sternum. The second ran perpendicular and crossed right over his heart; forming a crooked backwards Y when Hotshot looked at him, covering his chest like a cruel 'X marks the spot'. The boy had slapped Hotshot and stormed off when he'd pointed that out months later. The white ridges were both long and short, thick and thin. There were around 20 scars in all, all crisscrossing and dancing around each other to form an abstract pattern, the boy's chest a canvas they'd chosen to inhabit and permanently decorate.

There wasn't a day Hotshot didn't hate himself for asking how they'd come to rest on the boy's skin. There wasn't a day he didn't think of the boy raising a fist and miming the slashing movements over his heart, or the way his movements became harsher and jerkier as he started to cry. There'd never be a day where Hotshot could forget scooping the boy into his lap and cradling him, rocking him to and fro and pressing his lips to his forehead, waiting patiently for the boy to stop sobbing while tears threatened to spill over his own eyes.

* * *

**May 25th, 1700**

Hotshot stared up at the moon, a waning gibbous. The same as the night he'd met the boy curled against his chest peacefully. God forbid anyone saw them, Spot'd never talk to him again. But where they were, a small abandoned part of the docks where broken planks and loose boards prevented most people from reaching them, Hotshot thought they'd be safe for tonight. They had been for every other night.

Hotshot stroked Spot's hair absentmindedly and the skinny figure curled into him tighter, a fist gripping his faded red shirt. He looked down at the head of blond hair and sighed, watching Spot's head rise and fall in time with his chest. He looked back at the moon who smiled down upon the two boys who'd found peace below her. He saluted her, thanking her silently; and pulled Spot in closer, turning onto his side so they were pressed together, arms and legs wrapped impossibly around each other. Hotshot buried his face into Spot's hair, heart filled to the brim. _Thank God I found you in time..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, hope you liked the chapter! Spot is alive and kicking! How do we feel about that, eh? It came to my attention that some of you may have thought he was dead, and honestly when I found out I really did want to make him and his whole crew ghosts, but that wouldn't work for later on. Should I add a ghost? Up to you guys, let me know.  
> I've added dates for this chapter, and I'm gonna go back and add them to the other chapters too. Believe it or not they're both accurate with the lunar cycle AND important dates. You'll realise why later on as I'll explain it.   
> Sorry for not updating for a week, I've had... a bit of a week, to say the least. Real roller coaster. But... I TOOK TWO JAZZ CLASSES WITH JOSHUA BURRAGE!!! And I'm gonna start doing two classes with him and Ben Cook a week! Cool, right?  
> I'm thinking of updating this once a week as I start college in... 4 weeks? No. A month and 4 days I think. Idk how many weeks that is. Anyway, once I start I won't have as much time to sit on my butt doing nothing since I actually want to learn the stuff they're teaching. I get my GCSE results in three days too! Wish me luck, I need it. The system seems to be well and truly fucked.  
> So... that was the chapter. Real heartbreaker, am I right? And the songgg, oh it kills me. It's just perfect for how Hotshot feels about Spot. Just... *chef's kiss* perfecto.  
> Anyway, this note is a bit of a mess. Have a great day or night, I'll see you in the next chapter! Stay safe guys, until the next time,
> 
> -M.B

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this was the first chapter! I really hope you enjoyed it. I initially wrote it out with two or three slightly different narratives, for example Spot wasn't going to be mentioned at all, but in the end I decided that this version gives the most insight into what's to come, and hopefully gives you an incentive to read more!   
>  The music that'll be featured at the start of each chapter will be connected to the chapter, or at least the lyrics included will. I'll leave you to figure out how though. (I love spending hours choosing songs that link things together, I'm sorry. I had to do it.)  
>  Nothing more to say right now, so until the next time,
> 
> -M.B


End file.
